Ancient Skies
by Perfect Nerd
Summary: A recounting of the happenings before the Rains of Destruction. Not PG-13 yet, but I expect it to be. First fanfic, please R+R. Chapter 2 up!
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Skies of Arcadia is copyright Overworks and Sega. Ancient Skies is copyright Gannon Hubbard. Any similarities between other fanfics are either inherent or coincidental in origin with no plagiarism or copying intended. Yes, I am paranoid about people accusing me of copying A. Cannon's fic.  
  
The Crimson Civilization, once a proud and prosperous world power, lays in its self-made bed of rubble and sand. The Blue Civilization is nothing but a gathering of scarcely-populated islands. The Green Civilization lies barren, its vast jungles burnt down in the Rains and its Cities of Mist turned to stones and dust. The Mages of the Purple Civilization have fallen to their death, their machine of war having turned into their own harbinger of fate. Bodies lie in the streets of the Yellow Civilization and the water fountains, the ones that still work, churn out the blood of victims. They are not victims of guilt, nor are they victims of angst and sorrow. They are former victims of the Great Atrocities of the World. They have been plundered, murdered, and massacred by world powers, by their own homelands.  
  
Could this have been prevented? Could this whole, terrible occurance have been bypassed by some mundane event? Everyone, the 'everyone' that refers to the paltry few survivors, says no.  
  
Maybe, just possibly, there could have been a way to prevent the War of Ruin, a way to avert the horrible battles that killed millions, the bombings that lasted weeks.  
  
No. To think such optimistic thoughts is foolish. That time has long passed, and it would bring no sigh of relief, no lifting of the weight off thousands of shoulders, to tell the world that there was a way this could have been prevented.  
  
Perhaps future generations, though, will appreciate my story. Perhaps they may study these records and documents I have gathered and organized.  
  
So here is a note to any future peoples, human or not, that may come across my notes. Read the following carefully, and take its sound advice. Do everything possible to prevent anything like this from ever happening again.  
  
Ours was a victory for the survival of the human race. However, it was Pyrrhic.  
  
Let yours be a victory for the continuance of peace. 


	2. Pyrrhus' Dream

Part One: Pyrrhus  
  
A battlefield. The gray, craggy mountains set out before him was strewn with craters and bodies. In the distance he could see two factions fighting amongst themselves. "Jyrad!" came the Nasgarean battle cry.  
  
He recognized the bellowing, deep voice as that belonging to his second-in- command and hastened to the battle, hoping to get in on the action. He ran, yet he did not feel like he was actually running. It felt more like he was... floating. Yes, that was the word. Floating.  
  
He reached the battle. He saw two clashing forces, one wearing yellow and the other wearing red. He soon recognized the red army's battle formations. It was his. But where were his officers? Where was he? He saw no red tassels, no embellished helmets designating a high-ranking officer of the Nasgarean Army. Also absent was the body from which the voice of his second-in-command, his most trusted advisor, emanated.  
  
The battle froze. Swords were held in midair, cannons and their fired ammunition hanging as if strung to the heavens by a spider. It was as if he was looking at a picture taken in the middle of some bizarre dance or ballet. He noticed spurts of blood frozen in time as the lifeforce of a Velin infantryman quickly drained. Colors blurred together as the passage of time increased fifteenfold. He saw the last of the Velin forces fall to the ground in cries of agony. He saw the remaining score of his troops, out of a previous force forty times that amount, straggle off into the distance.  
  
And here time slowed to its normal speed. The troops stopped and leaned over a body he had not noticed before. He found himself moving closer to the beaten and sulking troops when he realized they had stopped at the exact spot he had "started." He recognized the red tassels and ornate crimson helmet as belonging to a general. The body was lying on its stomach. A tear fell from the cheek of one of the soldiers. He thrust his spear into a blood-stained strip of mossy dirt. Another rushed to his side.  
  
"Yarhynn, you must not worry about him. He is with the gods now."  
  
"All this campaigning, all these battles, just to be killed by this?!" Yarhynn cried out in anger. He grabbed an arrow from the general's back. It was of a familiar fletchery; surely this wasn't a Nasgarean arrow?  
  
"I know, I know," comforted the other soldier. "We must move on. The archer that let loose that arrow is surely dead by now."  
  
Yarhynn stood defiantly. "We have to bury him."  
  
"Dammit, Yarhynn! Soon the Velin armada will pass by on its way home from the battle at Ixa'tixan! We must leave!"  
  
Yarhynn looked at the general's body for another minute. "May the moons smile upon you, Pyrrhus."  
  
Pyrrhus awoke with a start. The back and front of his Yafotuman nightgown was drenched in sweat. "What in the Pit was that?" he asked himself.  
  
A loud knocking on the door roused him from his bed. "Hold a moment!" he called to his visitors. "What in the red moon do they want?" he asked himself as he drew the crimson curtains back to reveal a messenger of the Suleiman of Nasgar.  
  
He dressed himself in a flowing red tunic. He ran down the flight of stairs and pulled open his heavy wooden door, his long hair flowing. "What is it?" he asked them.  
  
The messenger handed him a scroll bound by a brilliant red ribbon. It bore the seal of Suleiman Kaliturna, a pyramid engulfed in illustrated flames. "The honorable Suleiman Kaliturna requests your presence in his receiving hall. Further instructions are recorded in this scroll."  
  
Pyrrhus broke the seal with a knife laid on his bedroom dresser and unrolled the scroll. The top was embellished with the same coat-of-arms imprinted on the seal, a stone pyramid surrounded by a circle of fire. It read:  
  
"The Suleiman Kaliturna calls to his reception hall all generals under his command to discuss the matter of the Velin aggression and its solution."  
  
"'The Velin aggresion and its solution?'" he asked no one in particular. "Does he intend to set us at war with Vela?" For years Nasgar and Vela had maintained peace. Recently, though, the Suleiman had been channeling massive amounts of the treasury into weapons development. Pyrrhus had noticed no aggression from Vela other than the rise of militarism, and even that was not a threat. Had the Suleiman finally gone mad?  
  
Pyrrhus shrugged off the disturbing notion and dressed in his ornamental uniform. He stood six feet, two inches tall in the crimson uniform, a bundle of brilliant red cloth keeping his hair from falling to the ground. His uniform was a long red coat tailored specifically for him. Red and gold tassels adorned the shoulders of the cloak, gold bars designating rank set on his right breast. On his left were various medals and commendations he had received during his long career serving in the Nasgarean Army. He polished his velvet, full-cover sandals and set out to the stables out back. The red moon was beginning to set as his steed galloped to the glorious city of Pyrryna. 


End file.
